A Hero's Guide to Working Together
by nightfuries
Summary: Six carts holding prisoners. And within each cart an outsider, one who does not belong. Divines help Skyrim, for there are six Dragonborns now and they're not the most compatible team. Chapter 1: In which Robyn contemplates his bad luck, Alaena makes some friends, Fallimi doesn't plan well, Cythrine questions the justice system, Terric realises his mistake and Deisis hates everyone


**_Welcome, everyone, to my first Skyrim fanfic! I love this game so much, I just couldn't resist writing one :) Be warned though, Skyrim is the first Elder Scrolls game I've played, so my lore and knowledge of things might be a little shoddy. If I make any mistakes just let me know :) That being said, this story is obviously not going to follow the game exactly due to its premise. Also, the rating for this story may go up at some point - depends on how gory it gets_**

**_Anyways, enjoy!_**

* * *

_Creak._

_Thud._

_Snap!_

Another rut in the road, another moment where the wagon's wheel stuck, another crack of the reins as the driver urged the horses to pull through. The same events had been repeating themselves for the better part of the day, and Robyn could picture them happening even with his eyes closed. But currently, he was trying to clear his mind of the big, blond guard's image, who was no doubt cursing whatever shoddy workmen had built the road they travelled. No, right now, Robyn was attempting to focus on nothing, which he knew would be the only way he'd ever get to sleep. And sleep meant eventually waking up – hopefully in a place that wasn't here.

For this had to be a dream, it _had_ to. Even his luck couldn't be so bad. His parents decision – or rather, command – that he travel to Skyrim to aid in flushing the land from its plague of Stormcloaks: inevitable, an unfortunate side-effect of living with two Imperial parents devout to the Empire. A lost map: just an average day for Robyn, that sort of thing sadly happened to him all the time. Stumbling across a group of Stormcloaks as he crossed the border to Skyrim: bigger than a few mistakes in his life, yet still well within the range of normal Robyn luck.

Getting caught up in an Imperial ambush: bad.

Getting _caught_ in an Imperial ambush: worse.

Beaten and bound, thrown in a cart with an assortment of Stormcloaks and trundled off to who knew where: by the Eight, what could he have possibly done to upset the gods so badly?

Robyn sighed and slumped lower on the wooden bench, his legs sticking further out and brushing up against the prisoner opposite him in consequence. The Nord woman wore a blue Stormcloak cuirass, which only served to emphasise the iciness in her steely cobalt gaze as she glared in his direction. Immediately, Robyn felt the heat rise to his pale cheeks, and quickly rearranged his sitting position so that he took up as little room as possible; legs to chest, knees under chin, bound hands at his ankles. It felt oddly comforting, and he brought his arms closer, hugging himself as much as he could and wishing with all his heart that he could melt away into nothingness. Bad enough he had to be arrested for something he didn't even know was illegal; but being one of the only outsiders amidst dozens of Stormcloaks, and the only Imperial at that, made for nothing but hostile glares and muttered insults in his general direction.

_I'm not even supposed to be here!_ he wanted desperately to shout; to whom exactly, he wasn't sure. _Please, just let me go, I'm not a criminal! Please!_

How was he to know crossing the border between lands was forbidden? In all his eighteen years of existence, he'd never even left his hometown of Chorrol, much less left the province itself. And his parents certainly hadn't known of the law, or they never would have sent him on his journey . . . or perhaps they would. Lyria and Pholen Kryonius had never been particularly fond of the way Robyn swung a sword or held a shield – to call his technique _poor _would be more than charitable. This could always have been one of their impractical plans to teach their son the merits of excelling as a warrior, or some such lesson. There had been stranger – the incident with the trolls, for one, or the time with the goblet, the goat cheese and the severely enraged hagraven.

Still, Robyn highly doubted that, had his parents planned this, they would have let him get so close to the "mad, corrupt rebels and their murderous bastard of a leader". Yes, there was no way they would capture Ulfric Stormcloak himself merely so they could put their son on the proper path to weapons and war.

Which meant he was all alone in this with no one, _no one _to help.

At least all the other times, someone had been there with him, even if their presence hadn't helped much. _"That sword is enchanted, son!"_ his father would call. _"With flames! I promise it will work against the troll! Just get down from that tree, avoid the swiping claws and you'll do fine! No, no, don't let the blade touch the tree. That's . . . oh, that's bad."_

Perhaps his father's comments as he watched from the sidelines weren't the most helpful, but right now, Robyn would give anything for them. The wagon had begun its trip downhill and with the steep incline of the cart, he could barely keep himself from sliding into the strapping, red-headed Nord next to him. With the Stormcloaks' barely concealed dislike of him, a move such as that was liable to get him shoved out of the cart.

Though that might be a kinder fate, he thought dismally, remembering earlier events. Having been caught near dusk the day before, the Imperials had decided to set up camp, as opposed to dragging their prisoners through the night towards their destination. But the morning they'd woke, many with a painful kick to the gut, their captors had informed them that their journey would soon end. The sun had reached its peak in the sky at least three hours ago and this mysterious place to which they were heading must appear soon. For a short while, Robyn had almost wanted to get there – anything to leave these Stormcloaks and their suspicious glares behind.

But that all changed as soon as the stone wall and straw-thatched roofs came into view. A sudden fear took hold of Robyn, severe and immediate in its effects; at once, his bound hands began to shake and he could practically feel the blood draining from his face. Was this . . . was this prison they were taking him to?

Or something worse?

_Divines help me,_ Robyn prayed, hugging his legs tighter to his chest. _Please, please, I need help._

_Please._

/0|0\

One cart ahead, Alaena was having the time of her life. Admittedly, the mood had been difficult to lift at first – the blond, bearded man who'd introduced himself as Ralof had mentioned Sovngarde awaiting them, which had thrown the horse thief beside him into hysterics, and Alaena had decided that just wouldn't do. Fear was contagious, and if there was one thing she hated, it was fear. One couldn't exactly be a successful thief and smuggler if they constantly stopped to _worry_.

So she'd set about raising the bleak cloud of despair that had settled over her wagon-mates, using the only tool she currently had: wit. Honestly, she was thrilled that these men were such attentive listeners; no one had ever bothered to stay and hear the full, _hilarious_ tale of her adventures in High Rock with a mute skooma dealer.

"And then – you won't believe this – the fool tried to use his merchandise to put the fire out! I doubt any of you've ever tried, but let me tell you: skooma and fire don't mix. Now, Khajiit never stop complaining about the cold here in Skyrim, but apparently they don't much like heat either; the one I was with must've jumped as high as those trees over there once the fire exploded. Well, maybe _exploded_'s not the right word, exactly . . ."

All right, she might not have been getting many laughs – while the Stormcloak across from her tried to manage a weak grin, the thief was too busy continuing whispered prayers to listen and, well, it wasn't as though the man sitting next to her could actually speak, what with cloth that had him gagged. But it was the _effort_ that counted, yes?

And anyways, she herself was chuckling enough to make up for the other three. So it all balanced out.

Truthfully, she couldn't understand what was making everyone else so nervous. The Imperials had said this morning that their journey would end soon; that meant prison. Which, in turn, meant easy-to-pick locks. A few picked pockets, one stolen horse and a ride to a nearby town later, she'd be relaxing in a warm, cozy inn with a tankard of cool, refreshing mead paid for unknowingly by the very Imperials who'd arrested her in the first place. Perhaps she'd leave them a thank you note before she left.

Though that would prove impossible for a few reasons, so she'd have to settle on escaping the Imperials and stealing their goods without rubbing the fact in their faces. Still, it was a very good plan, and she could rest easy knowing full well it would work.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

Wait. Headsman?

Short, blonde wisps of hair danced wildly as her head jerked to the left, eyes landing on the guard who'd spoken. He wasn't serious, was he? No, of course not; no one would hire an executioner for one whose only crime was accidentally offering a group of Imperial soldiers some illegal bottles of skooma. How was she to know they were sticklers for rules? Her multitude of jobs demanded constant travel, and as such she rarely spent much time in her home province at all, leading to a lack of knowledge on the civil war that ravaged it. Still, one might think the official-looking armour, not to mention the carts of prisoners that trailed behind them, might have tipped her off but, eh, she hadn't been thinking straight. Her latest client had been a tad short on septims and had offered to pay the remaining fee in a few bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy. The Imperials may be in her bad books right now – for obvious reasons – but gods, could they brew a good drink.

Even just the memory of the happiness that honey-coloured liquid had spawned was enough to relax her. No, this "headsman" couldn't possibly be for her. More like he was just present for the so-called rebel leader, Ulfric Stormcloak, who was apparently sitting next to her, bound and gagged like any average prisoner. Well, the gag was new, but that was beside the point.

"Look at him." Alaena was startled out of her thoughts by Ralof, who was speaking for the first time since his Sovngarde comment. That felt like ages ago; how long had she talked? "General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him."

She waited for more of an explanation, but the bitter words seemed to be more of audible thoughts than statements for conversation, and for a while, nothing else was said. What she could tell, though, was that man Ralof's comments were directed to was the Imperial in the fancy army sitting on the horse close to the gates they'd just passed through. Hmm, perhaps when she got out of here, she'd look into this war business. Everyone liked to talk about it, yet not one person had actually offered her a summary of the two sides and what, exactly, they were fighting over. It was beginning to get on Alaena's nerves.

But all these irritated thoughts disappeared at once as their cart passed further through the town. When they'd first entered, Alaena had been largely disinterested; wooden buildings with straw roofs built on stone foundations – same old, same old. Much could be said of the Nords' talent for battle and skill at sea, but creative architects, they were not.

Yet as the wagon jolted around one of the taller, stone towers further inside the village, something caught Alaena's eye that forced all other thoughts from her mind.

That was a chopping block. And that was an axe. And that axe was in the hands of a muscled, hooded headsman.

And now all their wagons were stopping and the Imperial woman was shouting for everyone to descend.

"W-why're we stopping?" At first, Alaena almost thought it'd been she who had spoken; the very same question had just darted across her mind. But no, it was the cowardly horse thief, wearing a look of absolute terror as he eyed the Imperial guards all around them, gaze constantly returning to the executioner and his blade.

Ralof took a deep breath, and despite the resolve in his eyes, Alaena could detect a hint of fear as well. Which was bad.

Fear was contagious.

"Why do you think?" he answered. "End of the line."

And yes . . . yes, she was definitely catching it.

/0|0\

Typical close-minded Nords – arresting him for "illegally crossing the border", sure. They could make all the excuses they wanted; Fallimi knew they'd just picked him up because he was a wood elf. Was it his eyes, entirely black, that made him look so sneaky? Or perhaps all those with pointed ears were automatically considered criminals. Yes, that must be it. Or he wouldn't be here. Because he hadn't _done_ anything.

The resentment only grew as their wagon came within sight of the headsman and his axe. _Oh, fantastic. Could this day just get any better?_ Fallimi had yet to manage a feeling of fear in his heart; he was still too busy with his anger at the Imperials.

Solitude: that was what the journey was supposed to bring him. Peace and solitude. And . . . something else. But now he'd never get that because he was heading off to _die_.

The Nords certainly knew how to welcome outsiders to their home.

But thinking of the goal in his journey had put an idea in his head, one that grew and developed the more he pondered it. Yes, his bow and quiver had been taken, the same as all his other supplies (must remember to thank that one guard, he'd done such a _thorough _job of stealing everything Fallimi had), but he, well, he had another weapon, didn't he?

His thoughts were interrupted as their cart slowed to a stop, while around them other wagons did the same. There was a shout for the prisoners to get down and line up, and currently lacking another, fully-formed plan, Fallimi did as bid, allowing the multitude of Stormcloaks seated around him to descend the wooden steps first. Now standing at the back of a rather large sea of blue, with a few interspersed shades of brown, Fallimi had plenty of time to ignore whatever was going on in front and blossom the budding idea in his mind.

In addition to the loudmouthed Imperial who had shouted the commands, five more guards were up front, each pair assigned to two wagons with a list of the criminals in each. Unfortunately, what appeared to be the captain, judging from her glimmering steel armour and ornate helmet, was with Fallimi's group. Besides her and the others, there were two men by the bend in the road and at least a dozen others watching from a closer distance. Not to mention the citizens of the town, who all seemed to think an execution was entertainment worth leaving their homes to watch.

Terrible odds, at best. But insurmountable ones? Perhaps not . . .

"Wait! Who's the elf in the back?"

The Imperial woman's sharp voice cut Fallimi's thoughts like a blade, forcing his focus to break once more. Glancing up, he realised that while he'd been planning his potential escape, the blonde Nord standing in front of him had been called to line up by the block, leaving him in full view of the captain and her companion.

"Step forward, wood elf, and state your name!"

As he was the sole Bosmer present, this could mean only him and Fallimi's hopes of going unnoticed were dashed once he took his first step. He might not be the only non-Stormcloak present, but of _course_the Imperials would signal him out. Cursing this province and its entire population once again, Fallimi sighed irritably as he made his way to the front of the crowd.

"Your _name_, prisoner."

Perhaps it was the disdain in the woman's words that sparked the loathing, or maybe the fact that she was the one ordering them all to their deaths, but for whatever reason, Fallimi could feel his hatred for the captain increase with each passing moment. "Fallimi," he answered curtly.

"Last name?"

Fallimi couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "You really don't know anything about Bosmer, do you?" It was quite rare to see one of his ilk with a family name, and his was not one of the scarce exceptions.

The captain didn't seem to appreciate his insolence, and her scowl deepened until her grey eyes had practically disappeared beneath her furrow brow. "Captain?" It was the Nord soldier beside her speaking, the one with the book and quill. "What should we do? He's not on the list."

_What do you know? There are some competent Imperials after all._ At least someone had realised he clearly wasn't a criminal.

Yet, the captain's glare never wavered.

"Forget the list," she said, still eyeing Fallimi distastefully. "He goes to the block."

And here Fallimi thought he couldn't hate this woman anymore.

Seething on the inside, Fallimi reluctantly made his way to where the larger portion of the prisoners no stood. "_He goes to the block._" Ha, not on her life. There was no way he'd made the long journey all the way from Valenwood just to be executed by some stupid Empire lovers before he even had Winterhold in his sights.

The thought of his destination reminded him of his idea, and he stole a glance down at his hands. Bound by simple, albeit sturdy, rope; no enchantments, no protection against magic, nothing. Obviously the Imperials weren't planning on capturing any mages when they set out to ambush the Stormcloaks.

But could he do it? He'd never had any training and the last time he'd tried, the results had been . . . disastrous. Then again, the executioner was waiting and he had no intention of letting that overlarge axe touch his neck – or any other part of his, for that matter. He could do this, he told himself. He could take on dozens of Imperial soldiers and escape without a scratch. Not a problem. Not a problem.

"Lokir of Rorikstead!"

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

"Halt!"

"You're not going to kill me!"

"Archers!"

_Schhwaff._

_Thunk!_

"Anyone else feel like running?"

Or . . . he could stick around. Try as he might, magic and Fallimi never seemed to mix.

/0|0\

This delay was unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. Cythrine had expected to near Whiterun by now and to be on a carriage bound for Winterhold on the morrow. Yet instead, she was in Helgen, listening to Imperial soldiers list off the names of each and every prisoner present.

At least, she assumed it was Helgen. And she was sure she was right. She'd made sure to memorise a map of Skyrim and all its holds and towns before she left the Summerset Isle, in an effort to prove to her grandparents that she was fully prepared for this. _"Far too risky and worthless besides,"_ her grandfather had said in that slow, drawling tone he used whenever he disapproved of something. _"A quest for knowledge in the Nord's land is laughable; the entire population lives for fighting and drinking. What information could they possibly possess that we don't have right here?"_

The College of Winterhold. And, furthermore, a college that was accepting of necromancy.

Her grandparents loathed it, naming it dark, unclean, a vile magic. But Cythrine had argued that all magic was power and all power came from knowledge, so was it not best to learn all types of magic? They had shaken their heads, muttered their dissent and encouraged her to return to her spell tomes. Never one to disobey, she had done just that.

But they'd never specified which spell tome.

In the very back of her grandparents' library, long forgotten under a pile of old texts on the history of Morrowind, Cythrine had dug up a master-level Conjuration spell: Dead Thrall. The idea that corpses could be reanimated permanently and made to fight again and again intrigued her. Why, if everyone knew spells such as these, soldiers could become obsolete and fatalities in all wars could be reduced to nothing, if only the long-dead fought. It was a complex read, high above her skill level, but Cythrine was determined to learn it, even if it meant journeying all the way to Skyrim to meet with those who didn't reject the more controversial spells.

She'd managed to get about a third of the way through the book before it had been taken from her, along with everything else she'd packed for her journey.

"You there, elf." The guards in charge of her wagon, recently ceasing their duties in lieu of watching the attempted escape of the brown-haired Nord, were resuming their list with somewhat shocked expressions. Cythrine was guessing they were both somewhat new to their posts; seasoned Imperials like the captain hadn't even batted an eye as the archers shot the runaway down. "What's your name?"

"Cythrine."

The two men waited, clearly more sued to the Nord prisoners, who'd given both first and last names for the list. Being one of few elves to possess the latter, she was about to continue herself, but paused. Her family was renowned in the Summerset Isle, and any Altmer would recognise it the moment she spoke. This could easily get her out of the mess she was in; a few Thalmor had been present earlier, surely at least one would recognise the name Thromaire and all that it entailed. Yet for some reason, she could not bring herself to utter it. Had they realised who they'd accidentally arrested, the first thing the Imperials would do was write a letter of apology to her grandparents. And then they would know all about her failed journey. Their arguments would prove sound; hers would fall through and she'd never be able to justify another trip to Skyrim again.

"Well?" the shorter of the two men asked, clearly still waiting for a last name.

"Just Cythrine," she answered, and their eyes went to the list.

"Um, Captain, we've got another who's not on here." Cythrine remembered the first non-Stormcloak in their group to be called, a young, red-headed Imperial who had desperately tried to prove he was no criminal. He'd been sent stumbling to wait by the block anyways, and as the captain glanced over at Cythrine, the elf could tell she'd get the same response.

"Put her with the others. We don't have time for this."

The new guards nodded and gestured for Cythrine to stand by the others. Well, she'd avoided being recognised . . . but she now she was waiting to be executed. No, these Imperials would never murder anyone without a fair trial. They were loyal to the Empire, and the Empire stood for all that was good and just.

The remaining few prisoners were called and soon every one of the carts' passengers were assembled by the chopping block, save the man who had tried to run. Yet still, there was no semblance of a trial about to take place. Instead of a council, brought to listen and judge each prisoner's plea, there was only a headsman, his axe already bloody, by the look of it. He must only be for the Stormcloaks, Cythrine tried to reason. Only for those known to have committed crimes. She'd heard of the Imperial ambush, but had been arrested just before noon today and thus hadn't been present for the ordeal. _They'll deal with them first and then speak with the rest, _she told herself, refusing to think of the words as reassuring, for that would mean she was afraid. And fear wasn't rational; fear brought failure. But she had nothing to fear, so long as the Empire upheld its morals and values.

She'd just managed to convince herself not to worry about the Imperials when the bone-chilling roar filled the air, making fear just a bit harder to ignore.

/0|0\

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero."

So this wasn't exactly the type of adventure Terric had been expecting. That was fine. Heroes had to improvise sometimes, didn't they? Surely the great Tiber Septim hadn't had a plan for everything.

"But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

He just hadn't been thinking properly, that was all. Dusk settling, visibility not the greatest and of course, the screams of both soldiers and steel as a battle broke out in the forest. The gods had been sending him as message, he was sure of it. _This is your chance, _they were saying. _Save those in need. Defend them. Become a hero!_

"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos."

He could tell from the noise that the battle involved dozens of people, but the first living soul he came across was a dark-haired Nord, pale and wincing as her blue cuirass turned red with blood. Terric had knelt to help, though he didn't know much in the way of healing magic or potions. Which was why he was much happier battling the shouting man in silvery steel over a blood-red tunic, who'd come lunging out of the trees with his battleaxe swinging straight for the injured woman's head. Terric's greatsword Aetherius had plunged deep into his chest before the man could even react, and from that point forth, Terric set forth to defend the blue-clad warriors from those in red, automatically assuming the injured party was the victim.

"And now the Empire is going to put you down."

All it had taken was a glance one of the officer's helmets for Terric to realise he was fighting the Imperials, an army of men and women he'd respected quite highly back in Hammerfell. He'd put down his sword then and tried to convince the Imperials he'd made an honest mistake, but the dead body of their comrade had proven too much to ignore. Before Terric knew what was happening, someone was slamming the hilt of a sword into his temple and then everything had gone black.

It was too bad news of the war in his home province didn't include descriptions of what soldiers on either side _looked like_; then this whole mess could have been avoided.

"And restore the peace!"

And he'd be off to Whiterun, joining the legendary Companions and going on all sorts of adventures.

Terric thought he'd imagined it. He was daydreaming of slaying trolls and giants again, and the noise must have been purely in his imagination. But then why was everyone else looking around in shock, eyes widening and nervous shakes overcoming a few of the prisoners as a bloodcurdling roar rang through the crisp afternoon air. Terric himself couldn't resist turning his head towards the sky, eyes darting back and forth amongst the clouds. _What in Oblivion . . .?_

"W-what was that?" It was an Imperial who spoke, though not one of the Legion; a prisoner like Terric, not affiliated with the Stormcloaks, though that was where their similarities stopped. Terric must have been at least a foot taller, with muscled arms at least three times thicker than the other lad's.

"It's nothing," the general said, more for the benefit of his own agitated soldiers than the worried prisoners. "Carry on."

The Imperial captain seemed to be one of the only people not fazed by the disturbance. "Yes, General Tullius!"

As though from far away, Terric vaguely heard a priestess of the Divines begin to recite the last rites, only to be interrupted by a particularly aggressive Stormcloak. He was too busy continuing his search for the source of the roar – and he could see he wasn't the only one either. Nearly all the prisoners had their eyes to the sky, though quite a few appeared terrified of what they might find if they looked hard enough. What could possibly have made a noise like that? A giant or troll was one thing; but to hear a roar from the _sky_? Terric knew of no bird that could make such a racket.

"You Imperial bastards!"

The shout was unexpected, and surprised Terric enough to take his gaze off the clouds. It was a woman who'd spoke, the very same one he'd tried so hard to keep alive during the previous night's battle. Her jaw was clenched tight, not from pain this time, but a furious rage, and as Terric looked back towards the front of the crowd, he saw why. While the prisoners had been distracted by the roar, the Imperials seemed to have decided to ignore it and continue on with their duties as if all was normal.

So there was now a headless Stormcloak lying sprawled across the block.

Wounds and death had never much bothered Terric; all his life he'd dreamed of becoming an adventurer like those he'd heard of in the tales bards recited, and such a profession did not come without copious amounts of blood and gore. Still, he did not revel in it and turned his head aside as the Imperial captain kicked the body out of the way to make room for the next criminal.

_That's what these Stormcloaks deserve, though, _Terric told himself as he heard the captain call for another prisoner. Back in Hammerfell, news was scarce of Skyrim's war, yet Terric knew enough to understand which side fought for justice and which for their own selfish desires. _And the Empire has Ulfric in their grasp now. Once they kill him and his supporters, peace will reign through this land and all should be well._

Once they kill him and his supporters . . .

Hadn't Terric just thrust his sword through an Imperial's ribcage only last night? And these supporters they were executing . . . he couldn't possibly get mistaken for one, could he?

This adventure of his seemed to be taking an unwanted turn.

And as if on cue, another nightmarish roar rang through the silent town, carrying with it the sounds of impending death.

/0|0\

How dare that woman?! _"Next, the lizard!"_ Who did this Imperial scum think they were? The captain was glaring straight at her, for her insulting command could have been directed at no other; Deisis was the only Argonian present, in both the crowd of prisoners and the whole town itself. Still, she refused to move upon principle. If the impudent bitch wanted her at the block so badly, she escort Deisis there herself.

Well, the captain didn't, but two Imperial guards did. Deisis growled as they approached and considered throwing a few punches when they made a grab for her arms, but upon remembering the dead man's attempted escape, she thought better of it. Better to die with honour and defiance still burning in one's eyes than get shot down while running like a coward.

So she allowed them to escort her to the block, though there was a limit to how much she'd obey. As the captain saw when she curtly ordered Deisis to kneel.

It took three Imperials to push her down the ground; she was big for an Argonian, and more muscled than the two scrawny Nords calling themselves soldiers. But as the captain finished with a firm push of her foot on Deisis's back, the Argonian found herself kneeling in the dirt just like the Nord before her, glaring up at the headsman and daring him to swing his axe.

A challenge he appeared all too willing to accept. Had the dragon not come.

Another ear-piercing roar came from the clouds and all at once, the sun was blotted out as some vast creature soared overhead. It came from the way Deisis was facing, and even her eyes widened in surprise as the dragon came into full view.

She'd heard little of the mythical beasts, and seeing one now, she knew no folktale or children's story could ever capture their presence. It was as black as night, with horns and spikes protruding from everywhere along its reptilian body. The wingspan was massive, larger than the tower Deisis faced, but she couldn't get much of a good luck; the dragon was circling lower, and with a thunderous crash landed atop the stone building right in front of her.

_Move, you fool!_ she thought frantically as the executioner stumbled and fell upon the dragon's impact. But for some reason, she couldn't seem to get her legs moving. Her heart, meanwhile, she wished she could stop; each beat was cacophonous, surely heard by everyone around her, and angrily she repeated to herself that she was not scared, she was not scared, she was not scared . . .

_CRACK!_

The dragon had opened its mouth, and this time it wasn't a roar that it emitted, but some sort of deafening explosion that somehow managed to cloak the sky in shadows and send a rain of fiery stones plummeting down towards the town. Deisis's head was swimming from being so close to the blast and her vision wavered in and out of focus, limbs not responding to her mind's commands. _Get up! _her inner thoughts shouted. _Get up! Don't pass out, don't pass out, get up!_

For a moment, it seemed as though her legs might finally respond. Then she keeled over and everything went black.

* * *

_**In my mind, flame-enchanted swords and trees don't mix :) Also, for anyone who's interested, here's a small pronunciation guide (because sometimes names are weird)**_

_**Robyn Kryonius = Rob-in Kree-oh-nee-us**_

_**Alaena = A-lay-na**_

_**Terric = Tair-ick**_

_**Cythrine Thromaire = Sith-rin Throw-mare**_

_**Fallimi = Fal-i-my**_

_**Deisis = Dy-zis**_


End file.
